caressing the lesser

you asked me to sew your heart

onto the soles of my feet

so i would tread more quietly

and leave a softer impression

i saw the record of my passage

as so many fallen petals

some soft blushed and full

some fading and muddied

which to love

which to look away from?

the fresh

the fallen

the sorry

the joyous

the unintentional

the weighted

not wishing to suffer the consequence

of choosing one before the other

i accepted

the ray splayed

and perfumed

the blanched

the fading

all dancing as one

in my eyes

no matter the beauty

not wishing for more

savouring

each

in their own wholeness

draped

the simple equations

that i've been offered

while passing through my life

have been too formulaic for my liking

but they taste so sweet

they feel so soft

and i have felt at times

that i could easily settle back into them

but for now,

being slowly drawn in thin-veined lines

i'll stop for a while

and lie draped across

a fallen branch

and when i have danced

my subtleties to the wind of this place

i'll fall back to the earth

and begin the slow return

my slow leaving

of this place

let me see the beckoning

feel the sighs of arrival

even as i learn the next complexity

in all its fullness

gil scott-heron

gil scott-heron died yesterday.

his music was like a match on the gasoline of a young man's emerging sense of indigination at the way the world was arranged. sitting in my suburban semi-detached house hiding behind walls covered with posters of che and miles davis, reading the whole earth catalogue, writing poems and painting and all the while listening with what could only described as hunger to whatever music i could pull my way,

gil scott-heron told some of the truth of what was happening in the bigger world.

his music filled in the spaces between my little red book and soul on ice.

his words were poetry with a purpose.

he released a new album last year after ten years of silence.

this is the title song.

you can listen to the rest of this album streamed right here.

first light

first light

then the search for constants

what map will hold the paths

of my travels

what words will tell the story

of the places i pass through

what names will name

the people i love

what spaces will open their mouths and eyes

as they draw me into their apparent emptiness

surrounding me

with their simple wealth

as a flower draws the bee closer

to its petalled realm

enveloping it in a pollen cloud

there are conditions to all things

and even the unconditional

wears clothes

what will cover the body of me

as i leave the flower of this day

a day at the beach

georges seurat evening, honfleur

they've pulled away

leaving dusk in their wake

now sitting in candled living rooms

far from the chilled stone grind

their eyes

soften with memories

behind blinded windows

monsoon point

i use music to reflect, adjust, or sometimes even define the space i am in.

because the work i do demands and even functions best when accompanied by

a high level of creative tension which teeters into stress,

i balance my being in the space of my home

with a form of music loosely described as ambient.

filled with texture and colour, emotive and sometimes even spiritual,

it revibrates the high pitched buzz that i accumulate through the course of a day.

the effect is to allow the subtleties of sensitivity to re-emerge.

a few years ago i came across a beautiful disc of music by a musician named al gromer khan.

go here to see his paintings, read his writings, and learn about his music.

the disc featured the vocals of amelia cuni.

listening to her sing is like watching the ink flow from a fountain pen onto a vellum page,

each note tracing the curves and sudden arcs of each letter;

at first with your eyes

and then with your entire presence.

go here to learn more about amelia.

together they have created a disc of music in the dhrupad tradition.

to learn more about dhrupad, go here.

this is a long piece of music in a time when music is typically offered in three to five minute frameworks, so may i respectfully suggest that if you listen to the first three to five minutes,

you'll get a sense of the whole.

alternately, put it on in the background and continue.

abundance

abundance pours down like rain

light and heavenly fire

in signs that are swift and sure

give way give way

to the pure

of presence

open your eyes

to the fullness

of the earth's heart

and

clear space

for the seeds

the sacred vessels

through which all life must pass

and become

and behold

their precision

and the careful delineation

of the one note they hold -

the song of the love

that binds all things

bringing down the light

nicholas tournier banquet scene with a lute player

the small opening in the ceiling

was traversed once a year by the passage of venus

the evening star

without fail

it bestowed

its cool soft-silvered kiss

on those who gathered below

the narrow aperture

to celebrate this event

each man had brought a gift

the one

his music

another his knowledge of cookery

another his wealth of stories

of life as an artist

in his home country

as the night sky filled the opening in the ceiling

so did the little room fill with unexpected guests

wine filled their heads and their hearts

each hoped

that with the kiss of the star

so too

would she

proffer a kiss to him

nicholas tournier réunion de buveurs

visual prompt provided by tess at magpie tales

the settling

in the tumble down evening

pieces fall into place

a slight rustling and shifting of

roots and leaves

the shadows soften

to the subtle drone of dust motes

settling into a velvet stupor

me

i'll sleep

and hold hope for

the gold-feathered stroke

of the morning sun

golden hair

in the colourful histories of musicians, there is as much information and discussion about those who have fallen by the wayside as there is about those who have reason to stardom. somehow falling makes them more human or in some way their vulnerability makes them less worthy of veneration. some dismiss those

who don’t achieve and maintain fame as weak or selfish or thoughtless.

its's intriguing to me that little consideration is given to the terrible torments so many of them experienced after having been offered the key to the door of success, or talents beyond those of the ordinary only to find that the extraordinary cost of acquiring that key is beyond the abilities of most human beings to bear.

one such musician was syd barrett. before i started researching this entry, syd was a name i knew only through association with the beginnings of a band who made three albums that i admire. the band - pink floyd. the albums - meddle, the dark side of the moon, and wish you were here.

here’s syd barrett . . .

and here’s pink floyd in 1968 with syd (second from left) . . .

syd released two solo albums, one of which is entitled "the madcap laughs"

which contains a beautiful version of a james joyce poem entitled “lean out of the window”

which syd reworked as “golden hair”.

here’s james joyce’s original poem . . .

lean out of the window

lean out of the window,

goldenhair,

i hear you singing

a merry air.

my book was closed,

i read no more,

watching the fire dance

on the floor.

i have left my book,

i have left my room,

for i heard you singing

through the gloom.

singing and singing

a merry air,

lean out of the window,

goldenhair.

and here is syd barretts reworking of “lean out of the window” - “golden hair”.

leaf fish

the sky

is a suspended blue ocean.

the stars are the fish

that swim.

hafiz

(excerpted from "a suspended blue ocean")

faze wave

the search

is a metaphor

that begins with the need

to find

the otherness

of yourself

in someone else

past opposing

then entwining

fingers of touch

extending hands

across the breaking water of birth

then singing

through the litanies

of compression

and swimming as one

with the storm-surge

of repression

until

in the singularity

that the comfort of familiarity brings

each moment dances

across the screen

of the one big

unfolding moment

and in the kindness of the revelation

that is part and parcel

of letting go

you see past the steamy remnants

of a morning shower

and notice

your face in the mirror

is of interest to you

but objectively so

a place of curious investigation

not defined by its alignment

with the constituents of surface beauty

but entirely with those features

that suggest

you are other than yourself

and the search becomes more unreasonable

and demanding

and then entirely real

crank 'er up ladies and gentlemen - this is music to dance with!

the cave singers faze wave

looking for your face

distracted

by the whispering of colourful petals

drawn lately

to the soft rustling of old leaves

i have spent much of my life

looking for your face

in the forest

in her comment, ruth refers to a poem by rumi entitled "looking for your face".

it is beautiful and insightful.

if you go here and scrool a fair way down you'll find it tucked away with other jewels that fell from rumi's pen.

finger bowl

my fingers slip

like soft knives

through its buttered glass surface

lifting them to my tongue

the sharp-edged tang of rock

cuts through

the dull earthiness

of last autumn's leaves

the trees

look on

in hushed expectancy

quiet twilight

quiet twilight, honfluer terrick williams

i sit on a bench on the opposite shore

and wait:

shadows dance along the street

and swing into the cafes

soft flickering yellow light

and songs burst outwards

released on a wave of warm air

heavy with wine and candle smoke

love offered and coyly rejected

a kiss

long and soft

settles on the thwarts of the lone boat

rocking softly on the ebbing tide

falling with the rain

i'm looking through windows running with rain

and thinking thoughts

up above the world so high

where silver rain feathers are gathering

before drifting earthwards

into the slender green arms and fingers

of trees and plants reaching upwards in welcome

somewhere near the earth

the white cherry blossom clouds

soften and melt

like candy floss

in the mouth of my eyes

forms emerging

isaak levitan the moon at twilight

the pale echoes

of the passing day

rain upwards

as shadows rise to light

the dance and the dancers

turn the music inwards

into a single slender thread

comprising

the singular

thoughts

of a man

under moonlight

complexities

looking across the age of aquarius i am - for all of my own age and experience - a child of the idea of possibilities too great for anyone to hold in their hands or put up on the shelf of their understanding, i wonder, i wonder so much, and i especially wonder if that is why i feel compelled to stand and hold the railing for support and share what little i can retain and articulate.

how could this simple life have evolved into an

experiential architecture of such complexity?

moss garden

thirty seven years ago i stayed in west berlin for a little while. the city buzzed with energy. artists and musicians were being drawn once more to it as the epicentre of every sort of extravagance and one only had to pass through checkpoint charlie to enter its exact opposite in east berlin.

a couple of years later, david bowie and brian eno were residents of the same berlin.

at that time they crafted the album "heroes" on which a beautiful track entitled "moss garden" can be found.

an instrumental, “moss garden” features bowie plucking a japanese stringed instrument named a koto.

david plucks the koto over a painterly wash of sound crafted by eno that contains

elements of wind, water, and even birds.

the effect is soothing and evocative and conjures up images in my own mind of marshland in the autumn.

it has been used to interesting effect in this film shot on berlin's s-bahn. the film takes a painterly approach through its conscious blurring of the scenery that the camera is passing.

the resultant views in combination with the music are in my view very lovely.

the qualities of light and space

martin johnson heade newburyport meadows

i give you the whole

the inestimable scale

of yourself

and ask you to compare it

with the largest space

in your experience

perhaps

the expanse of a water meadow

the vast fullness of a hay field

the improbable and unlikely

details of even one moment

of your living

would flood and overwhelm these spaces

in less time than

you will take to read these words

so dance on the experiencing

of this moment

this pregnant expansion

of your seeming insignificance

into the greatest gift the universe has to bestow

on itself

which is

always has been

and forever will be

the gift of you

martin johnson heade hayfields a clear day

boat

piet mondrian river view with a boat

listening to my wistful writings

(i read these posts out loud to see how they might feel

to you -

yes i try and become "you"

to know if the verity that i feel

in the moment of these word's becoming

has any substance)

what i hear are the

soft mumblings

of a man painting the words of himself

against the painterly field

of the resonant whisperings of generations

of his family before him

still searching for the seed of intuitions

that might blossom

into flowers of knowledge and understanding

the arc of return

georgia o'keeffe red and orange streak

the birds and the wind and the rain

and the sun and the pushing

of billions

of green shooted births

through the softening soil

are the song of the arc

of return

-

i heard the spring wind whisper

above the brushwood fire,

"the world is made forever

of transport and desire.

"i am the breath of being,

the primal urge of things;

i am the whirl of star dust,

i am the lift of wings.

"i am the splendid impulse

that comes before the thought,

the joy and exaltation

wherein the life is caught.

excerpted from "earth voices" by bliss carman

the orange thief

john dawson watson the orange thief

i saw a small girl make her way from under the twisted arms of an orange tree.

at first, she didn’t notice me, as her eyes were entirely focussed upon the orange

which she cupped in her hands.

when she lifted her head to look around, her face opened like a pale moon.

looking into her eyes which spread around me like spilled ink,

i bent and swayed like a bed of reeds with each motion of the current of her.

the air briefly stilled. no bird sang. no insect hummed. no living creature moved.

everyone and everything slept, and yet even in sleep the air began to flutter with expectation.

i felt myself drifting like a tiny breeze, hovering towards her along the flowing ink of her gaze.

when in a voice filled with the softness of twilight, she laughed and turned away.

i felt compelled to follow.

mother's day

this is my little bruvver david and i. a very long time ago. i can see a little bit of a skirt and a long apron behind us. i believe that's my mum's mum. a lovely lady with a chuckling laugh, she was a baker's daughter. soft and kind in my remembering. she gave me miniature chocolate bars, and glass bowls filled with vanilla ice cream and mandarin orange slices

"a mother's love liberates".

maya angelou

on this - mother's day in north america -

i honour my mother

...

no more than i usually do mind you

because i have a deep respect for my mother

who was difficult

when i needed a "difficult" mother

but didn't know it

easy going and supportive

when i needed

an easy going

and supportive mother

but had no clue why

was and is loving -

without condition

whether i knew it

or not

(and of course i now know!)

and somehow she knew i'd figure so much of this out

and be alright.

it's very cool

to arrive at a place

of genuine appreciation

and admiration.

happy mother's day mum!

with love from steven

amulet

william henry margetson the amulet

for that beauty of the heart is the lasting beauty: its lips give to drink of the water of life.

truly it is both the water and the giver of drink and the drunken: all three become one

when your talisman is shattered.

that oneness you cannot know by reasoning.

rumi

excerpted from mathnawi, book II: 716-718

wave or particle

the quiet place:

entirely present in the instant

fluid in the long now

wave or particle

i feel my time

caspar david friedrich mountain landscape with rainbow (detail)

soft grey fingers

cross the far hills

and glide across the gardens

i know

that soon they will hold

my own tired hands

.

as they

flow under the darkened house

a song tumbles from my mouth

wordless

self-conscious

it inches like a vine

attaching

single notes

to the inside of the window

.

i write by

the glow of the night-rainbow's arc

whose feeble light

settles like dust

on the leafy curtain

of my creation

silence

christopher pratt half moon, bright stars

the approach of silence

is sometimes a noisy affair

heralded by the march past of

brass bands

and dancing girls

motor cars

filled with people

whose waving hands

cup vainly at the air

hoping to draw some of your attention

to their passing

while you

sit on the smooth lip

of a cold concrete curb -

craving nothing more than a moment

in which to savour the taste

of the silky sweet

hard-boiled candy

that the clown dropped in your lap

elusive

edward john poynter erato: muse of poetry

her eyes somewhat downcast and thoughtful,

she sits on the other side of the table

waiting for the door

to creak open and admit the guest

who will they be?

what will they say?

how long will they stay?

something in the soft compression of her mouth

casts doubt on the likelihood

that the answers to the questions

i fling into the void

won't simply resolve as little better than

the transient sparks

of a falling star

arcing across the pale-silvered brow of dawn

more on erato

this empty rowboat

the rowboat claude monet

the knot had worked its way loose

or perhaps i had pushed it away from the dock

no matter . . .

somehow it had set adrift

this empty rowboat

now turning slowly in the current

i followed its progress from the riverbank

using a well-worn path

in whose dusty script

i could read the stories

of the passage of others

long aisles of trees

ripe with the feathered green

of early summer

peered down

to read the words of my journey

each letter written in dew

on pale clustering flowers

at a widening in the river

i left the path for the purple slopes of a hill

where, safe from the world's gaze

i watched as countless rowboats

- all mirrors of my own -

bumped hollowly against each other

lost in their reflections

down the levels

streamingwater john george naish

tumbling through the levels;

the falling

a dissonant counterpoint to my anticipation

thinking all my life

that i would rise to my place

and not fall

until i came to realize

that tumbling

isn't falling

but letting go